C
HAPTER
15
H
e couldn’t get down fast enough, skipping over most of the steps. His weight tested what was left of the rough wood treads and the ladder squealed in protest. Gareth ducked his head under the low ceiling and bent over. Annie lay curled up as if she’d decided to take a nap on the dirt floor, her body on its side. He pressed a finger to the pulse at her neck, letting out a ragged breath when he felt its strong beat.
“Annie,” he whispered. Gently he turned her on her back, flinching when he saw the bloody bruise at her temple. She’d been knocked unconscious in her fall, her limbs limp, her face ashen. Fearing broken bones, he kneeled down and glided his hand along each arm and leg over the dull brown stuff of her housekeeper’s dress. She didn’t stir at his touch. Pray God she wasn’t paralyzed, her spine snapped, her brain forever scrambled—all the possible horrors rose up before him like drink-driven nightmares.
He couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. But he had to do something for her, the most important of which was to get her out of the dank mustiness and fetch a doctor. Gareth stared up to the rectangle of light coming through the open door. He wasn’t sure he was steady enough to climb himself, but somehow he had to carry Annie up the ladder and into safety. She couldn’t weigh much—even if she was curvy, she was quite short. It would have been an easy task for him a year ago, but now—
He couldn’t tuck her under his chin as he’d done with the bottle of champagne, and he didn’t want to leave her down here while he fetched Martin to help him get her up. Hell, he didn’t even know where Martin
was
.
“Sweetheart.” He fumbled with a handkerchief and folded it over her forehead, blotting up the worst of the blood. “Wake up, love. You’ve got to help me again. I can’t do this without you.”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “That’s my girl. Wake up, Annie.” He sat and lifted her into his lap, cradling her against his thudding heart. Her skin was frozen to the touch. Gareth realized there were puddles on the floor that were skimmed over with a thin layer of ice. The heat from the old kitchen stove didn’t penetrate down here.
How long had she lain here? He’d wasted time talking to Ian, more time seeing to the horses. Still, it couldn’t have been more than an hour since Ian left her.
Unless he had pushed her down the stairs and shut the door before he met Gareth on the road.
No. Even Ian could not be so cruel. Gareth was his enemy, not Annie Mont.
She hitched a breath, then groaned. He buried his lips in her lilac-scented hair and forced back a smile. It was too soon to be happy.
“Annie. How do you feel? What hurts?”
“Ev-everything.”
“Don’t move just yet. What happened?”
“I thought I heard a noise down here.”
“And you thought you’d investigate. Curiosity killed the cat, you know. It was probably just mice, love. You know I’ve set poison out.” It was one of the few things he’d done in the house—it was one thing to sanction dust, but no one wanted mice nesting in one’s bedcovers.
She nodded, then winced in pain at the movement. “I opened the door, and then—”
“Then?”
“I—I fell. I took a step and my foot slipped right off the top rung.”
“It seems we’re taking turns falling down the stairs.” Gareth frowned. “But the door was closed.”
“I didn’t close it.” She looked up at him in confusion. “I needed the light from the kitchen to see.”
“It must have blown shut. Sometimes it’s as windy in as out in this old house. Or we’ve very strong mice,” he teased. “Wiggle your fingers for me.”
Annie obliged, as if she were playing an invisible piano. “Now your toes. Everything in working order?”
“My head hurts.”
“I dare say it does. You’ve got quite a goose egg there, my girl. Thank God you didn’t have far to fall. This cellar’s not very deep—it’s more like a crawl space. We haven’t kept anything down here for years, except for my father’s few dusty bottles of wine. Was that what you were after?” He twisted a loose strand of her copper hair back beneath its pin.
“I wasn’t after wine. I told you I heard something,” she said stubbornly.
“I’m sure you did. You’ll get used to the sounds this part of the house makes. It’s a wonder it’s still standing, like an octogenarian in a creaky corset. My grandmother used to live with us. You could hear her coming a mile away, so it gave Ian and me a chance to make a run for it when we were doing something we ought not to have been doing. Which was fairly often, I’m afraid.”
“He came to see me this afternoon. He’s decided he’ll marry us after all.”
“So he said. I met him on the lane when I turned in. Did he—did he bother you? Ian is more judgmental than the Old Testament God.”
“No. He was kind in his own way. He’s not one bit happy, is he?”
How perceptive she was for someone so young. “Serves him right,” Gareth growled, settling her on his lap. He brushed dirt from her cheek and kissed it.
“Stop talking so uncharitably. Perhaps someday you two can be friends again.”
When Hell froze over, perhaps. “I doubt it. We’ve grown too far apart.”
“He seems—lonely. Why did he never take a wife?”
“Oh, he had one, once, years ago. She died giving birth, along with his daughter.” Ian had married not long after Gareth enlisted in the army. The marriage had been brief, and probably unhappy. A proper clergyman was expected to be married, and Ian was nothing else but proper.
“How dreadful!”
“Don’t feel too sorry. He didn’t love her. It was always Bronwen for him.”
Annie opened her mouth, then shut it, as if she was considering the wisdom of a response. Considering her condition, he should not still be sitting on the damp dirt floor talking about the past. It was over and buried. They should not be talking, period. He should somehow throw her over his shoulder and hoist her up the ladder to the warmth and safety of the kitchen. Fix her a cup of tea. Or a splash of brandy. He could use one too after the fright of seeing her motionless at the bottom of the steps. He gathered her closer, wondering if it was too soon to ask her to stand.
Her next words surprised him. “I confess, Gareth, that I’m sick of hearing that woman’s name. She seems to have caused nothing but trouble for all of you, even in death.”
“Don’t be jealous, Annie.
You
take my breath away.”
He felt a sharp elbow in his stomach. “I’m not fishing for compliments, you stupid man. And I’m not jealous of some beautiful back-of-beyond femme fatale.”
“Of course you’re not,” Gareth said, stung. “A grand ton lady such as yourself would no doubt have found her quite beneath your touch. She was a farmer’s daughter.”
“Oh, do give it up! This has nothing to do with class. From what little I’ve heard about her, she does not seem very—pleasant.”
She could be, at times, but Annie was right—
pleasant
was a wholly inadequate word for Lady Bronwen Lewys, nee Allen. Bronwen had risen to the rank that Annie had apparently been born into by marrying the local baron, and lorded it over Llanwyr. She had not been popular, but was still an influence over those seeking her approval. Her word against Gareth after his accident had poisoned his neighbors against him.
So no one could think she’d abandoned him callously in his hour of need, she’d made up a story of his brutality as he lay dazed and feverish in his bed, wrapped up in bloody linen and splints. She had claimed he’d attacked her in a drunken rage when she came to offer him succor. Of course she couldn’t marry him after such a savage experience—it would not be a safe home for her precious girls. It hadn’t helped that Gareth
had
been drunk, choosing alcohol over laudanum to dull his pain. He’d seen too many of his men befuddled and then lost to the drug after amputations.
But one escape from reality was little better than the next. The alcohol had proven to be just as addictive.
“This is neither the time nor the place to discuss old love affairs. Are you recovered sufficiently to walk? I think I can help you up the stairs if you have difficulty, but you’re a bit heavier to bring up than a bottle of wine.”
“I’ll be fine.” She shifted from his lap and he missed her immediately. He got to his feet, mindful of the beams close above his head, and extended his hand. She took it and pulled herself up, her face scrunching.
“What is it?”
“My ankle. I seem to have twisted it. Drat.”
“Here lean against me. Put your weight on your good leg. I’ll push you up from behind. Can’t carry you, you know. I’ll need my hand to steady us both.”
The short climb was torture, as her derriere rubbed up against his manly parts in the most provocative way. It was almost as if she was still sitting in his lap. He guided her with his legs over the missing rungs, vowing to replace the ladder first thing tomorrow. No, she wouldn’t be coming down here again—there was no reason to, noise or no noise. He’d bring up the remaining wine and nail the cellar door shut. There was a perfectly good dry foundation under the rest of the house with proper stairs, although as far as he knew there was nothing stored there either to attract her attention.
When she reached the top, Gareth squeezed her shoulder. “Stay still.” He dragged a kitchen chair over and she sat down in it gratefully. He grabbed another and gently lifted her booted foot and placed it on the well-worn seat.
“We’ll prop your leg up. May I have a look at it?”
“My governess would object.”
He grinned. “She’s not here now, is she? I bet you were a handful.”
“Sometimes. Oh! Do be careful. That
hurts
.”
Gareth unbuttoned the boot with difficulty, his fingers clumsy. Sure enough, her plain white cotton stocking was bulging. “Hold on, sweetheart. I’m going to unroll your stocking.”
“If this is a ploy to get me back in bed—”
Her swollen ankle was an angry red and hot to the touch. And wonder of wonders, there was a
tattoo
on it. A flower of some kind. He swallowed his curiosity and spoke lightly. “Of course it is! But you needn’t worry I’ll have my wicked way with you. In fact, I expect you’ll be in bed for several days, with me waiting on you hand and foot. I don’t think your ankle is broken, but sprained badly. You’re a sight from head to toe.”
Her hand flew to her temple, where Gareth’s handkerchief had stuck. “Bother. Will I need stitches?”
“I don’t think so.” He peeled off the cloth and examined her injury. Although it had bled profusely, it was more a scrape than a gash, thank heaven. But her fair skin was already mottling and would turn several colors before she was back to her lovely self. He decided to say nothing else to alarm her—no woman wanted purple and green skin, even for a day or two.
“I tried to catch myself when I fell, but I couldn’t.”
“You were lucky it was such a short way down. Still, you’ve managed to do enough damage. It will be my privilege to take care of you.”
She squirmed a little under his warm gaze. Could she see he imagined her naked in her bed, him feeding her sweetmeats? Of course, he had no sweetmeats, just a fresh loaf of bread and brandied fruitcake.
Ah, brandy. She’d had a shock, was shivering even now.
“Let me get you into bed and fix you some tea to warm you up. You’re ice cold apart from that ankle.”
She nodded, teeth chattering. Gareth swept her off the chair and carried her across the kitchen to her room, setting her down in the middle of her narrow bed. He wished it was bigger—he’d crawl right in and warm her up himself.
Instead he stirred up the little fire in her room and covered her with blankets. They were too thin, so he raced upstairs to take some off his own bed. He sniffed. They smelled like a combination of distillery and army barracks. Annie wouldn’t appreciate them one bit. But he did grab the bottle of brandy from his cupboard, and went back into his mother’s room. Gareth opened the trunk at the foot of her bed. Bunches of lavender and herbs were layered between stout woolen blankets and quilts, and he bundled them up and brought them downstairs. He mummified Annie in them and gave her a soft kiss on the good side of her forehead.
Then he set water to boil for tea and poured a healthy tot of brandy into her cup. He was not so particular for himself, swallowing a mouthful directly from the bottle.
She could have died
. True, the drop was short, but she might have broken her neck. His new life, so recently initiated, could have come to naught while he was arguing with his cousin or currying old Penny. He might never have thought to look for her in the cellar if he hadn’t had that strange prickling sensation down
his
neck.
Another dead woman—with his reputation, he couldn’t survive that. He would have been hung this time to the cheer of the villagers and sent on his merry way to Hell. Gareth poured a tumbler full of brandy, drank it down to steady himself, and waited for the tea leaves to steep.
“Almost ready. I’ll be in in a minute. You’re all right?” he called.
“Y-yes.”
He added extra sugar to her cup and sliced the fruitcake for her in case she felt well enough to eat. He’d have to look for some willow bark for her aches and pains, but for now the brandy would have to do. He stacked the cup on the transferware plate and carried it to her room.
“At your service, madam,” he said with a smile. She looked awfully small and pale underneath the mound of blankets. “After you eat, I’m going to clean your face and bandage you up properly. But first, drink up the tea, every drop.”
Annie took a sip and sputtered. “Brandy!”
“Aye, it’s good for you. Medicinal. And before you ring a peal over my head, I’ve had some, too. You gave me quite a scare, you know.” His heartbeat was still off-kilter.
“You cannot find comfort in a bottle every time something upsets you.”